


Intention

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cold Weather, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Shin-chan,' Takao whines, or tries to whine. It just comes out trembling and faint. 'I can’t feel my hands.'" Takao doesn't adequately prepare for winter weather. Midorima helps warm him up and things get a little out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intention

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dontcallmekoko](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dontcallmekoko).



Takao can’t stop shaking. The cold of the wind cuts straight through his jacket, casually ignoring the zipper tucked in tight under his chin, and his shoulders are hunched up so high around his shoulders he’s starting to feel the ache of collected tension all through his chest and down his spine.

“Shin-chan,” he whines, or tries to whine. It just comes out trembling and faint. “I can’t feel my hands.”

“I told you you should have brought gloves,” Midorima declares from the cart rattling behind him. “This will remind you to do so in the future.”

“It won’t matter,” Takao bemoans. “I won’t have fingers left. I think I have frostbite on the tips of my fingers already.”

“You don’t have frostbite,” Midorima declares.

“Easy for you to say,” Takao snaps. He doesn’t have to turn back to see the soft fabric of Midorima’s hat, or the trailing end of his scarf, or the blanket he has wrapped in around his knees. “You’re not even cold, are you?”

“I was sufficiently prepared.” There’s a creak, the shift of weight as Midorima twists to look at Takao properly. Takao does glance back, then, twists on the bike seat to see the glint of the dim moonlight off Midorima’s glasses. Then the light slides off and Midorima sighs and pushes the frames higher up his nose as Takao turns back around, takes a breath for another round of complaints.

“Pull over,” isn’t what he was expecting to hear, but Takao is willing to be adaptable. The street is all but deserted, the cold and the failing light from the dying sunset enough to have chased most people into the safety of their homes. Takao turns the cart in along the edge of the street and coasts to a stop to save himself the trouble of working the brakes with frigid fingers.

“Come back here,” Midorima is declaring before his feet have touched the ground. By the time Takao turns around the other is twisted around in the cart, gesturing peremptorily with a hand safety wrapped in a glove.

“I can’t move,” Takao whimpers, but he puts the lie to his claim immediately, climbing over the edge of the cart rather than delaying long enough to walk around to the back. Midorima huffs irritation at the way the vehicle shifts under the imbalance, but he’s holding the blanket up too, and Takao doesn’t care how irritated he is as long as he shares his warmth.

“I knew you loved me, Shin-chan,” he shivers as he scoots in closer. Midorima makes his disapproving noise, the little growl that says he’s about to say something more coherently judgmental, and Takao pushes the edge of his jacket and shirt up to press the frozen shape of his fingers to the other’s skin.

Midorima  _yelps_ , a high startled choke of shock, and a gloved hand closes on Takao’s wrist. “You’re  _freezing_ , Takao.” He drags Takao’s hand away from the heat of his skin -- a loss, Takao feels -- but then he’s lifting his free hand to his mouth and pulling his glove free with his teeth, and Takao likes where this is going. Besides, he still has another ice cube-hand replacement, shoves in against Midorima’s skin as much to see the other try to wiggle away as for the warmth of his skin.

“I  _know_ ,” he says, leaning in closer to bury his face against Midorima’s scarf while the other boy grumbles about a lack of planning and drags his glove over Takao’s fingers. “That’s what I was  _telling_  you and you weren’t listening.”

“I try not to listen to you, as a general rule.” Takao whimpers a faint protest but he can’t manage his usual faux outrage; Midorima is sliding his other glove over Takao’s free hand, and the lingering heat of the other’s skin is doing an excellent job of bringing heat tingling painfully back into Takao’s fingers.

“Now  _my_  hands are cold,” Midorima complains. An arm curls around Takao’s waist, taped fingers tighten at his hip. “Come closer.”

Takao’s not about to argue that. He slides closer, turns his head to sigh into Midorima’s neck, and the arm tugging at his waist fits in against his back, Midorima shifts his legs to fit between Takao’s as he rearranges the blanket around their hips. Takao is still shaking, trembling with aftereffects of cold, but the shivers fade off as Midorima’s warmth trickles into his blood, until even his breathing is easy and unhurried against the soft of Midorima’s scarf.

“Are you warmer yet?” Midorima sounds put out, but his hold around Takao’s waist hasn’t loosened, and he makes no effort to pull away at all.

Takao hums uncertainty against Midorima’s neck, nuzzles in closer so he can press his nose to the other’s skin directly. “Not yet.” He slides a gloved hand in sideways, presses against the edge of Midorima’s jacket, and the other doesn’t try to push him away. “Another few minutes.”

“We could be at home right now,” Midorima points out as he tips his head back to give Takao a better angle at his throat. Takao can feel the shift of his breathing, the hum of sound when he speaks. “It’ll be warmer there.”

“I’m comfortable now,” Takao says, turns his head in so he can brush his mouth against Midorima’s skin. It’s not quite a kiss as much as the friction of moisture, and Midorima huffs incoherent protest as the damp chills in the air, but he doesn’t push Takao away or even tense under the other’s touch.

“We should go home first,” he does point out once Takao reaches up to pull his scarf aside so he can kiss a line of sensation against Midorima’s neck. The other boy’s skin is warm and radiant, soft under his lips and smelling soap-clean when Takao breathes in, and his arm is steadying Takao’s balance as he moves. “It’s only a few minutes away.”

“You can definitely take us the rest of the way if you want,” Takao says, sighs against the top of Midorima’s spine. He loops an arm around the other boy’s neck to brace himself, flicks his tongue out to gloss against the other’s skin. “You can have the gloves back, too.”

“It’s a bad day for Cancers to travel.” Midorima’s fingers catch at Takao’s shirt, push up until tight-wrapped tape is dragging across the top edge of his jeans. “They’re prone to accidents today.”

“We should never have left in the first place then,” Takao points out. Midorima arches forward, enough that the other can fit a gloved hand in against the small of his back. It’s even warmer against his spine, heat so tangible Takao can feel it straight through the insulation around his hand. He presses his hips in closer, curving himself in to meet the delicate friction of Midorima’s fingers while he draws back from the other’s neck in pursuit of his mouth instead. “I knew it was a bad idea.”

“You’re the one who wanted to go out for dinner,” Midorima says, and Takao doesn’t have a good rebuttal so he leans in to kiss the unconscious frown at Midorima’s lips instead. The tension at his mouth goes slack, his lips part so quickly it must be reflex more than intention, and Takao takes that as agreement, shifts his weight up over his knees so he’s straddling Midorima’s leg in truth and the blanket slides down and off them.

Midorima makes a protesting noise at that, lets Takao go so he can reach out for the edge of the cover. “At least keep yourself covered,” he insists as he drags it back up over them. “You don’t have any shame at all.”

“I am covered,” Takao points out, deliberately exhales against Midorima’s glasses so they fog with the heat of his breath. Midorima whines a protest and Takao takes the blanket from him, holds it in place while the other draws his glasses off to rub them clean with the edge of his jacket. “Do you want to fix that?”

“Were you really cold at all?” Midorima asks as he fits his glasses back on and fixes Takao with a glare through the lenses.

“Of course I was.” Takao doesn’t bother repressing his smirk; Midorima sounds unwilling but he’s reaching back to replace his fingers where they were, moving with more intention now that Takao’s the one maintaining their cover from a nonexistent audience. “I wasn’t thinking of anything like this at all. This is all your doing.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Midorima says against the top edge of Takao’s jacket. The fabric that felt so thin on the bike is too thick now, stands between Midorima’s mouth and Takao’s skin until Takao whimpers and lets Midorima go in favor of dragging the zipper down an inch. Midorima takes the invitation to press his lips to Takao’s collarbone without speaking, and in the first flush of pleasurable friction Takao almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing with the blanket.

“If you drop that I’m going to stop,” Midorima declares. Takao’s fingers seize into a fist at the edge, desperation formed of actions instead of words. He thinks Midorima smiles, can feel the motion of the other’s lips against his skin even if he can’t see them, and then tape-wrapped fingers slide under the edge of his jeans and Takao has to exhale hard to keep from whimpering in surprise.

“I didn’t think you’d--” he starts, stops himself because it tastes too much like protest on his tongue and the last thing he wants is for Midorima to  _stop_. This time Midorima actually laughs, a short burst of incredulous amusement as he works Takao’s jeans open one-handed.

“Didn’t you?” He turns his head, touches his tongue flicker-fast to Takao’s pulse point, and Takao shudders more from the damp of the contact than from the way his clothes are falling open under Midorima’s touch. “You didn’t expect this at all?”

“Not quite this much, no,” Takao admits, honesty drowning out flirtation under the pressure of Midorima’s voice purring against his throat.

“I don’t believe you,” Midorima says, and wraps his fingers in around Takao’s cock before the other can piece together a more coherent defense. Takao sighs instead of groaning, pushes his hand an inch up Midorima’s waist, and Midorima chuckles faintly and starts to stroke up over him. The air is cold, even under the blanket and the friction of Midorima’s hand, chill enough that there’s a threat of chill seeping into Takao’s blood, but nothing is going to persuade him to pull away now that Midorima’s fingers are against him. The blanket is still more or less in place but it’s for the best that the street remains deserted; Takao is sure the arch of his back alone would be a giveaway, even if the way his breathing is catching on every inhale were less audible.

“We should do this more often, Shin-chan,” he suggests, tightens his fingers so his nails scrape gently against Midorima’s skin and draw a shudder of reaction from the other.

“You’re an exhibitionist,” Midorima says against his shirt. The motion drags his teeth just against Takao’s skin, shivers through the other like electricity as Midorima shifts his grip, braces his fingers and drags his thumb up over the head of Takao’s cock. Takao huffs, curls in over Midorima as the other pulls back to look up at his face. The starlight catches off the lenses of his glasses, forming the frames into a makeshift mirror if Takao’s focus weren’t on the black-green of the eyes behind them. All Midorima’s color is absent in the dark, turned into grays and blacks by the low light until his eyes look like the night and his eyelashes like smudged charcoal against his cheek.

“Like you don’t like it,” he tries as the best alternative to futile denial. Midorima’s mouth twitches, the threat of a smile against his lips before he blinks and shifts his grip like he’s resettling himself.

“Shut up, Takao,” and that is an order, burning new heat down Takao’s spine so he’s trembling a moment before Midorima’s grip slides up over him again, the extra friction of the tape catching on skin sensitive with temperature and sensation. Takao leans forward entirely, rests his forehead on Midorima’s shoulder, and when he gasps “ _Shin-chan_ ” into the other’s jacket there’s no protest at all, just an increase in the pace of Midorima’s movement and the maybe-imagined tilt of the other’s head against Takao’s. The hand at his back pulls him in closer, Midorima’s exhale pours warmth down against Takao’s half-open jacket, and then Midorima jerks up quick, and Takao shudders and comes as if he’s responding to some unspoken order. For a breath the chill of the air evaporates into pleasure, the juxtaposition of heat and cold together vibrating into satisfaction in his veins, and Midorima might be smiling and Takao has forgotten they are in public, forgets everything but the half-voiced moan vibrating in his throat to tangle in Midorima’s jacket. The gentle movement of Midorima’s fingers draws the resonance in his blood long, until Takao isn’t sure how much time has passed when his sense of his surroundings returns. Midorima’s fingers are still pressed against him, Midorima’s breath is blowing warm against his neck, and it’s not until Takao sighs and shifts his weight that the other clears his throat and forms his words around the appearance of irritation.

“I’ll have to tape my fingers all over again when he get back.” He lets Takao go, takes the edge of the blanket so Takao is free to tug his clothes back into place. His movements are clumsy with aftershocks of pleasure and warm satisfaction, but the chill in the air provides him with more than enough motivation to rush through the difficulties without waiting for full dexterity to return. Midorima lets him move without interruption, only moving to push the blanket aside once Takao has his jeans back in place and fastened into as much decency as he can manage with his skin sticky under the cover of his shirt.

“Now can we go home?” Midorima sighs. His eyes are skimming down over Takao’s shoulder, lingering at the edge of skin bared by the other’s open jacket, and for all his word his voice lacks the aggression of sincerity. Besides, Takao’s never been good at being patient, and maybe Midorima was right in his earlier comment because the dark of the open air around them feels like a suggestion.

“That’s not fair,” he says by way of lead-in, leans back enough on his heels that he can bring his hand around from Midorima’s back to his hip, drag his fingers across the other’s stomach with the slow slide of suggestion. “It’s your turn now.”

“Absolutely not,” Midorima says, but his hands are still at his sides, making no attempt to push away the feather-light brush of Takao’s glove-warmed fingers. “You might not mind but I don’t care for being sticky.”

Takao has to laugh at that. “That’s not a  _no_.” He licks his lip, slow so Midorima has time to look up at the motion at his mouth, and while the other boy is exhaling hard in half-shock and half-interest Takao is sliding his fingers past the edge of the other’s pants, reaching to get traction on the other’s button with more intent than grace.

“ _Takao_ ,” Midorima manages as Takao gets his jeans open, slides back so he can fit himself low and get his mouth on level with Midorima’s hip. “This is far too obvious, anyone could see what you’re doing.”

Takao huffs rejection of this idea, drags Midorima’s clothes half-aside so he can breathe out over the heat of Midorima’s cock. “No one’s out right now.” He slides his tongue out, flicks against the head of the other boy’s length to win a shuddering gasp and a sharp tilt of the other’s hips like he’s trying to arch in to meet Takao’s mouth.

“Someone  _could_  be,” Midorima chokes, but his fingers are pushing Takao’s hair back from his face instead of shoving him away and that’s surrender even if Midorima’s not saying it aloud.

“So keep watch for us,” Takao says, the answer easy on his lips, and then he’s closing his eyes and wrapping his mouth around Midorima’s cock and forgetting every single thing about their surroundings. Midorima is making a strangled sound over him, a moan forced down to the volume of a whisper, and Takao knows the other is watching him instead of the street, can feel the heat of Midorima’s attention burning against his skin. His tongue is full of salt and heat and friction, he’s purring against Midorima’s length without realizing it, more licking than actively finding a rhythm for his movements. It’s probably less than perfect technique but Midorima’s fingers are desperate affection against his hair and Takao can hear the tension building in every breath Midorima takes, and as long as Midorima is enjoying himself Takao doesn’t care about anything else, doesn’t care that they’re on a public street and that anyone within a block will see him with his boyfriend’s cock in his mouth. His heart is still pounding pleasure-fast with adrenaline, his breathing hissing hard through his nose, and he’s clinging to Midorima’s clothes like they can somehow ground him in place against the wash of heat over his tongue and ringing in his ears in time with Midorima’s muffled gasps behind the hand pressed over his mouth. Takao presses his mouth tighter, sucks and slides up at the same time, and he can feel the shudder run through Midorima’s entire body as tension gives way to satisfaction just before he comes against Takao’s tongue. Takao swallows quick, keeps sliding his mouth against Midorima’s length as the fingers in his hair tighten briefly before relaxing and letting the strands fall back to cast his features into shadow once again.

Takao pulls back a moment later, running his tongue against the damp at his lips while Midorima ducks his head and flushes so dark Takao can watch the shadow on his cheeks while he pulls his clothes back into place. It makes Takao grin, draws him in nearer so he’s close against Midorima again by the time the other looks up to see him.

“That was a terrible idea,” he says as he reaches out to draw Takao back against him. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“I do,” Takao hums, sing-songy and teasing, and Midorima huffs exasperation but tips his head for a kiss. His lips are cold but his mouth is warm, and when Takao leans in closer to fold against the support of Midorima’s shoulders even the memory of the chill fades away.

It takes them another half hour to get home, but neither of them voices any protest to the comfort of shared body heat.


End file.
